


Redemption Waltz

by Cat_Latin



Series: Chosen Family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t worry, Mary, I <i>have<i> been tutoring him.”</i></i></p><p>“He did, you know. Baker Street, behind closed curtains. Mrs Hudson came in one time. Don’t know how <i>those<i> rumours started!”</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>--Season 3, Episode 2: The Sign of Three<i></i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>They'd been doing this dance from the start, only now, it was set to music.</i>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redemption Waltz

 

 

 

 

Wedding preparations were simple task management, and he _had_ been asked to help. Sherlock didn't understand why John seemed in a perpetual state of startled gratitude.

All the most customary, tedious traditions for modern wedding ceremonies were easy to research. Most important, it was a project with a clear to-do list, and a finite timeline. If Sherlock had to plan weddings _for a living_ , he might have considered an actual leap from a high rooftop. He'd entertained himself by deducing each guest, as he helped fill out invitations, and folding dozens of napkins into complicated origami, which, upon reflection, might indicate he was going a bit mad.

If the sharp anticipation Sherlock felt for a day spent with John for _tuxedo fittings_ was any indication of his cerebral health, he was most certainly losing his mind.

Mary dropped John at the tailor, where Sherlock waited at the door. She was off to accomplish Bridal Things, but before she left, she got out of the car to plant a quick kiss on Sherlock's cheek. “I'm coming back to the city in the morning for an appointment,” she told Sherlock. “You've got custody of him until then.”

“He can hear you,” John groused, as Mary embraced him. He smiled after her, as she drove away.

Mary was subtly different. For an intermittent smoker, Sherlock had a highly developed sense of smell. She wore her belt loosened by one notch, and a longer jumper, which was normal at this point on the lunar calendar, but he couldn't detect the customary shift in her scent. Sherlock had re-installed the Solar System into his mental hard drive, with bonus astronomy and even some astrology. He reasoned that occult knowledge was helpful for understanding certain killers with a penchant for drama, and it helped solve more mundane mysteries on occasion as well. Sherlock began to form a theory, and almost shared it with Mary right there on the sidewalk before she left, but he held his tongue.

Since returning from his two years away, Sherlock had begun to settle into the visceral knowledge that he was socially juvenile in many different aspects of human interaction. This was different from having the intellectual knowledge, which he'd had since his teens. He was even rehearsing to share this fact in front of nearly everyone he and John knew, during his Best Man speech.

Socially juvenile as he was, Sherlock was not stupid enough to actually open his mouth to remind a woman, weeks before her wedding, to check her menstrual calendar if she kept one, (Mary did), because she was late for her period, and that he knew this by _smell._ And clearly, John hadn't noticed. Sherlock filed the information away, until more data could be obtained.

Sherlock abruptly decided to take advantage of every moment of his custody of John. He recognized all the signs of sentiment in himself with dismay, and vowed silently that he would not say or do anything untoward.

He did indulge himself though, by spending a full thirty minutes using John as a mannequin, to practice different neck ties—a perfectly appropriate time to have John close, to study John's face as he presented him with the results in the mirror, hands light on his shoulders, and perhaps Sherlock had dragged it out a bit long. John was skeptical at first. “You don't even wear the things.”

“Just because I don't wear them, does not mean I'm not aware of them,” Sherlock retorted.

In fact, Sherlock was aware of 115 varieties of knots, but at the tailor's, he only practiced twenty-two. John gamely consented, with a fond smile and patient eyes, accepting Sherlock's fingers working deftly near his throat, and Sherlock's undivided attention. John hadn't even corrected the clerk, who had beamed at them, and congratulated them on their happy occasion.

Then young Archie had arrived with his mother, looking forlorn, to get fitted up for his ringbearer's tux. He'd brightened up considerably when he spotted Sherlock. During a lull, Sherlock amused them both by using a seven-fold tie to teach the child how to make a hangman's noose.

Later, at Baker Street, Sherlock and John demolished a pile of Thai takeaway, and relaxed in their chairs in companionable silence. Debussy played in the background, a violin sonata, sounding tinny over Sherlock's laptop speakers. The scent of peanut sauce hung in the air, mingled with sulphur from an experiment earlier in the day. Sherlock made an actual effort that morning to tidy up, grumbling at Mrs. Hudson's knowing smile.

“You were correct,” Sherlock admitted to John. “Feel free to bask in it; I know it's rare.”

“About?”

“Beige works the best. As well as the half-Windsor. You wear pedestrian well.”

“You look surprised by that.” John was teasing again. “You'd make a brilliant, albeit terrifying wedding planner, if the detective thing doesn't work out.” He stifled a yawn. “Anyway, tuxedo shopping is exhausting. Can't imagine the horrors of shopping for the gown.”

“Mary has it well in hand. And Spencer Hart suits are exceptional. You'll look dashing for your first dance with your new wife,” Sherlock murmured. John looked horrified. Sherlock sat up from his lazy sprawl. “Surely you remembered the dance?”

“I know its traditional, but I hadn't thought about it,” John confessed. “Dancing's not really my area.”

Sherlock rose immediately, and went to his laptop. He switched the music to a Brahms waltz, a good enough start for a beginner, and gestured for John to join him.

John's face scrunched up with a question, even as he moved to obey.

“We'll begin with a simple box step, and when you've got that, we'll switch to a waltz.” Sherlock held out his hand.

Understanding dawned, and John blushed scarlet. He cleared his throat, began to say something, then abruptly went to the windows to close the curtains, before returning to stand well within arm's reach. Sherlock tried not to smile. He took John's hand in his right one, and put his left around John's waist.

“I'm going to show you leading, as well as following. It might seem overmuch, but it will give you a better understanding of the rhythms of your partner. It's how I learned.”

They worked on the box step for a time, Sherlock counting, John staring at the movement of their feet, a decent amount of space between their bodies. Sherlock left him for a moment to search his laptop for more suitable music, and set it on repeat.

“Always maintain eye contact with your partner. Don't look at your feet.” Sherlock pulled him closer, and tried to look reassuring. “Focus on the music.”

They worked on the waltz. John's movements were not as clumsy as he'd implied. Soon their movements began to flow seamlessly, familiar as running in tandem down alleys, and across rooftops. They made a game of it, switching the lead for every sixteen counts of eight, until Sherlock realized he was counting, and John was not, because he didn't need to.

Sherlock reflected they'd been sharing this dance from the start, only now it was set to music. It made his chest tighten, and his throat hurt.

John was doing well with maintaining eye contact. Soon he was able to maintain the steps, and carry conversation. “Did you learn this for a case?”

“I learned it to investigate a professional ballroom dancer from Paris, suspected of murder and cannibalism.”

“Nope. Lying. Try again.”

“Oh, you're improving. Actually, it was private lessons when I was young.” Sherlock grimaced. “Had to practice with Mycroft.”

John threw his head back and laughed, and Sherlock promised himself for the thousandth time, _nothing untoward,_ and maybe it was an accident that his lips brushed John's ear when he told him,“Mrs. Hudson has been observing us for the last seven minutes.”

“She must adore this. The lovers, reunited,” John said lightly, and immediately looked as if he'd like to unsay it. Sherlock rescued him with a conspiratorial grin. “Let's give her something more substantial. I'll teach this to you for your big day, so you can finish with a flourish.” Sherlock pulled John tight to his chest, and swept him down, into a dip. John's body went easily, and Sherlock bent with him, and planted a kiss on John's mouth. It was meant to be a joke, but John put up no resistance, and Sherlock worked to commit the occasion to memory: the moment of warmth, of their mouths meeting, and clinging. John's lips parted a little, and he sighed.

Mrs. Hudson tittered, and Sherlock heard her tap back down the stairs, presumably to ring Mrs. Turner and tell her the rumors were true.

When Sherlock let him up, John was smiling, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and moved away, and Sherlock experienced dread.

“Mary said...Mary expects us to sort this out at some point. All of it.” John wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

“To get it out of our systems?” Sherlock hadn't meant to sound bitter.

“I don't know. I don't think so.” John met his eyes briefly, his expression a familiar mix of affection and uncertainty.

 _Oh._ That was unexpected. Unexpected, and in the moment, completely overwhelming. John's body language said he seemed to agree. Sherlock searched his mind for a suitable change of subject. Miraculously, his phone chimed a text, and he practically dived to his coat to retrieve it.

“It's Lestrade. Body discovered in Regent's Park. Coming?”

“Yes, of course.”

Murders were easier to solve than love. They fled the flat, leaving behind the soft strains of Chopin on the laptop.


End file.
